


your soft blood

by inkk



Category: Megadeth, Metallica
Genre: Consent Issues, Dave Mustaine’s School Of Inferiority Complexes, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-06-12 08:30:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19565782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkk/pseuds/inkk
Summary: "—incoming storm expected to continue hitting the West coast hard this week,” the weatherman is saying.Dave pays James a visit.





	your soft blood

**Author's Note:**

> this was meant to be a fun pwp but then i immediately got sad.  
> canon doesn't exist. sorry dave.

James is sitting on the couch with a few beer cans sitting on the table when the knocking starts, watching the news because it’s the only channel his shitty black-and-white TV will pick up. It must be ten or eleven at night.

“—incoming storm expected to continue hitting the West coast hard this week,” the weatherman is saying.

Maybe knocking isn’t really the right word for it. Thumping, maybe. Pounding. Banging. Hammering. Loud and incessant and undoubtedly intoxicated, much like Dave will be when James unlocks it. He knows he shouldn’t.

“I know you’re in there, Hetfield, open the fuck up!”

James carefully counts out thirty seconds in his head, then keeps going until he hits sixty. Thirty more for good measure before he finally gets up and slides the chain back to open the door. “What do you want, Dave?”

“Heat’s off at my place,” Dave scowls, immediately shouldering past him. “Jesus, are you deaf? I was freezing my fucking balls off out there.”

He’s already kicking off his shoes and peeling off his jacket, scattering fat drops of water from the downpour outside. Judging by how he stumbles and grips onto the nearest wall to steady himself, James would guess he’s probably already downed a half bottle of something on the way over.

“You got anything to eat?” Dave asks, halfway to the kitchenette.

“There’s some ramen left over in a pot on the stove,” James tells him. Probably gone cold by now, though Dave doesn’t seem to care or notice - he doesn’t bother with a bowl, just grabs the pot and the nearest spoon and digs in.

James watches, unimpressed. “You run out of food at your place, too? Or did you just lose your map to the grocery store?”

“Fuck off,” Dave tells him through a mouthful. The fact that he’s not protesting more tells James his first guess must have hit the mark. It takes about thirty seconds flat for him to polish off the rest, wipe his mouth on his sleeve and ask, “Where’s your booze?”

It occurs to James that he’s not in the mood for this. “Fresh out,” he says flatly. “What gives, huh? You lose your job again?”

The familiar, insolent sneer is back on Dave’s face in an instant. “So what if I did?” he asks, crossing his arms.

“You're back to dealing, then," James says after a moment of stony silence. Concludes it, really. As if he didn't already know the answer. 

Dave makes a point of rolling his eyes. “Fuck’s it matter to you how I run my life, runt?”

Something red and dangerous sparks on James’ tongue. “Fuck you,” he snaps before he can stop himself. “Fuck you, okay? You think it’s none of my business that I haven’t seen you in eight days, and then you show up out of the blue to eat my food and get your dick sucked? You think that doesn't matter?”

For a second Dave just looks at him, entirely devoid of emotion in a way that makes James’ chest feel tight. “Why did you come here?” he presses on, steeling himself against a waver in his voice. “Huh? Why do you always come back here?”

Dave’s lip curls. “I told you, my heat’s off. Thought maybe you’d wanna help warm me up.”

James sees it coming. Of course he does. He knew what was happening from the moment he unlocked the door, and yet here he is, still walking right into the fire.

Dave’s got him pinned against the counter before he even knows what’s happening, mouth working so fiercely against his he can’t pretend it’s a kiss. James reflexively shoves back at him, hard, tries to snarl out an empty threat but finds his wrists held tight and a tongue in his mouth instead.

It should be gross. It should be unwelcome. It’s Dave and he tastes like vodka and shitty instant ramen, two days’ worth of stubble scraping the hell out of James’ jaw, dirty and greasy and disgusting from a lack of running water.

“Fucking bitch,” Dave snarls into his mouth as he clumsily forces a thigh between James’, already half-hard as he presses in and their belts scrape together. “Little cunt, sitting high and fucking mighty. You think you’re better than me, huh? Think you can tell me what to do? Fuck you, I’ll fucking show you.”

James doesn’t say anything. He can’t reply - not with Dave’s lips against his own, swallowing his muffled grunt as their teeth clack together. None of the words really mean anything, anyways. James has found it much easier just to let him say whatever he wants, to let him get the weird fucking inferiority complex part out of his system.

He doesn’t even bother putting up a fight when Dave pulls away and grabs him by the shirt, shoving him towards the bedroom. James barely manages to get the door open before Dave is colliding with him again, pushing him inside until his ankles collide with the shitty mattress and he falls onto it face-first.

“Fuck you,” Dave repeats for good measure, and a shameful part of James feels his own grimy jeans tighten further. “Fucking golden boy with the golden dick, huh?”

 _Oh, god._ James groans into the blankets, worming his hands underneath himself to undo his belt before Dave can yank his jeans and boxers down to his ankles so fast it’s almost painful. James grunts and shifts around, kicking his legs so they fall to the floor entirely, taking one sock with them.

Dave tumbles down practically on top of James, knocking the wind from his lungs in a shocked exhale. His arms fly out in an attempt to flip himself over and gain back some modicum of control, but Dave is a solid mass pinning him down and rutting down against him, bare-assed and undignified.

“What are you gonna fucking do about it?” Dave growls, dick hard where his jeans are pressing against the small of James’ back.

James groans again and thinks, _Nothing._

Dave mutters something else and shifts back onto his knees, still pinning him down by the thighs. A clap of thunder rolls outside - loud enough to startle, but not loud enough to cover the sound of him undoing his flies, followed by denim being shoved down and him spitting crudely into his hand.

James grinds down into the mattress. “Dave,” he chokes out.

“What,” Dave says flatly, accompanied by the sound of him stroking himself. James doesn’t have to see him to know the smirk on his face or the hungry, soulless look in his eyes. He knows he’s right where Dave wants him.

“Fucking asshole, just let me—”

Before he can decide what the rest of his sentence was supposed to be, Dave grabs him by the shoulders, rocking his weight onto one knee so he can flip James over onto his back and straddle him anew. “Should shove my dick down your throat just to shut you up,” he hisses, grabbing James by the hair.

James’ hips tick up into the empty space between them, another shameful sound of wide-eyed arousal seeming ripped from his throat as he takes in the sight of Dave leaning over him, jeans undone just enough to pull out his erection. James’ own cock is starting to leak onto his belly where his shirt has been rucked up to his ribs, bare legs splayed haphazardly with one sock still on.

James stares motionlessly up at him for a second. Dave makes a guttural sound of frustration and grabs James’ wrist in an iron grip, raises it to his own mouth and spits into his palm.

“Why don't you give me a hand,” he says slowly, pointedly, tone menacing enough to make James’ spine tingle. It's not phrased as a question.

Dave drops his hand, and James doesn’t hesitate before reaching out; his face flushes red as his hand brushes over Dave’s stomach, the sweat-sticky skin there and then further down to wrap a first around the hard, flushed length of him.

He can’t pretend he doesn’t know this part. He can't pretend he doesn't know how to stroke fast and tight, twisting his wrist just the right way in order to make Dave’s breathing hitch and his hips rock forward into it, chasing the motion. Like muscle memory.

Even after eight days, two weeks, or a month, James still can’t shake the feel of him. Of _this_ ; of Dave’s body and his voice and his stupid antics and shitty behaviour and how he always comes back, how they always end up here, James underneath him and Dave—

Dave, licking his lips and looking down through the hair hanging around his face. There’s a detachedly amused twist to his lips, a swoop running through James’ guts as they lock eyes. Dave smiles.

“Knew you were good for something,” he says meanly. it’s as if his voice is tugging something loose inside James’ guts, making him jerk his hips up and bite his molars down on something that could have been a whimper. “Anyone ever tell you that you look a lot prettier when you’re not talking back?”

“Fuck you,” James huffs, his breath coming fast and unsteady.

Dave just laughs. He grinds his hips back and James reflexively thrusts up, chasing the sensation of denim rubbing up against his cock.

“So fuckin’ impatient,” Dave mock-chastises him with a sneer. “Wait your goddamn turn, Hetfield. Maybe if you do a good enough job, I’ll let you jack yourself off after.”

“Asshole,” James pants out, quickening the pace of his wrist and squeezing just a little on the upstroke. “You’re— Fuck, such a selfish dick.”

“Rich, coming from you,” Dave grits the words out. “You get off on this shit, you fucking freak. Y’know what Lars would think if he knew you popped a boner every time I called you ‘bitch’? You know what he’d say if I told him how you practically cream yourself every time I throw you around?”

A choked, desperate sound tears itself from James’ throat. “Fuck, Dave, fuck, let me—”

Dave grunts low in his throat and leans down further, hunched over with his dirty hair drifting across James’ chest as he grinds down. “Jesus, shut _up_ , I’m almost—”

He still tastes like soup packet flavouring when he licks back into James’ mouth, breathing hard, clumsy scrapes of teeth catching as he ruts his hips hard and fast. The angle’s not ideal; James’ hand is more or less trapped between their stomachs, wrist twinging slightly, but Dave is close enough that it doesn’t really matter anymore. He’s just along for the ride.

Dave bites him when he comes. Hard. James flinches against the sharp pain at his lip, a shocked, hurt sound flying out just as Dave groans and spills onto the bare skin of his stomach. He tastes blood, but Dave doesn't stop kissing James as he works himself through it.

“Fuck you,” Dave mutters as he finally slows to a halt, breath hot against Jame’s ear. He stays like that for a moment, hunched over with his hair in James’ mouth before rolling off to the side, back turned.

“Fuck you,” James echoes, staring up at the ceiling as his boner flags. Another clap of thunder rolls outside. Louder, this time. Closer. The sound of rain beating against the window seems to register for the first time.

He lays there for a moment before getting up and wiping the come off his belly with a discarded sock, then pulls his boxers back on and shuffles back out to the couch. The TV’s still playing the weather as he finally starts to drift off. He pretends he doesn't hear Dave rummaging through the booze cupboard on his way out.

+

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: @[shotgunmessiahs](http://shotgunmessiahs.tumblr.com)


End file.
